


there ain't nothing that i need

by theteapirate



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: M/M, but for the most far this is pure post-war fluff, some daddy issues creep in, yo watch out this is some teeth-rotting sugary sweet shit right here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-24
Updated: 2013-06-24
Packaged: 2017-12-16 00:36:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/855772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theteapirate/pseuds/theteapirate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Here is a sea cottage that belongs to Webster’s parents. Mom and Dad have only used it once, but Webster’s returned dozens of times, alone, or sometimes with a girl. But this time -- Liebgott’s head a comforting weight on his shoulder, their fingers tangled together, calluses finally beginning to rub smooth -- Webster thinks he might stay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	there ain't nothing that i need

There are days where all Webster can think of are the things he needs, the things he doesn’t have, the things he wants more of. _More sleep, more water, more sex, more toast, we’re all out of milk, we’re all out of condoms_ \-- even now, even when the war is over. _Lieb, I need_ more, _I can’t just_ \--

Joe hushes him. “We got enough.” He kisses Webster’s neck, which is stubbornly unticklish. “We got everything here.”

 _Here_ is a sea cottage that belongs to Webster’s parents. Mom and Dad have only used it once, but Webster’s returned dozens of times, alone, or sometimes with a girl. But this time -- Liebgott’s head a comforting weight on his shoulder, their fingers tangled together, calluses finally beginning to rub smooth -- Webster thinks he might stay. The house is every Cape Cod cliche, gray and shingled with a long white porch right on the ocean. They have a swing, and little dishes with sea shells, and a pale yellow-tiled kitchen where Liebgott makes their dinner, while Webster reads on the swing or catches fish to put on the grill.

Their days are spent surfing or writing or swimming or reading or really, whatever they want. _We’ve earned our freedom, y’know?_ Joe says. Webster can’t help but agree.

One weekend Webster teaches Lieb how to fish. “The most low-born activity my father ever permitted himself to partake in.” He says this so bitterly that Liebgott can’t even bring himself to mock him. There are traces of Webster’s father all of the house -- the stiff, dusty law books in the study, the collection of hard liquor in the dining room armoire, the cold, unloved boat that waits sadly at the dock. They take pride in ridding the house of these last, unwelcome vestiges of a man who no longer belongs here and replacing them with their own memories until the house is as warm and soft and loved as it should be. They hang an American flag off the porch, but that’s the only war reminder they’ll keep. Their friends stay hidden in cardboard boxes, under the house. They figure they have enough memories locked in their heads, swept under their bones and aching in their scars. They call, sometimes (Liebgott) or write letters (Webster) but it almost seems as if the world knows they’ll all be reunited in time. For now, they should relish the spray of the ocean and the wind on their naked limbs and the knowledge that they’re no longer hungry. They don’t need anything more. They finally have everything they need, and they are more beautiful than either man has ever been before. 

The ocean stirs up ever impulse of freedom they possess, and they are more alive for it. David’s skin turns brown and his hair seems almost possessed with sunlight, a wild, shimmering black-brown to match the crop of scruff clinging to his jaw. His eyes seem bluer than both the sea and the sky combined. The look on his face makes Liebgott think he was born smiling, or born to smile, as if the sun comes from Webster himself and dapples their world in wet, sparkling warmth, splashing them with vitality and sometimes making Liebgott forget that he has ever felt cold or hungry or lonely in his life.

At this sea cottage, Liebgott becomes a child; mouth obscenely red and sweet, while his skin remains determinedly pale. Webster has to slather him with SPF 50 and even still, his shoulders and nose become pink, eventually turning into a delicious peachy color that always drives Webster crazy with want, desiring nothing more than to make the skin even darker with his mouth. Everyday Joe gets younger and wilder, splashing through the waves, dark hair slick and plastered to his head when he emerges from the water smiling brilliantly, sun glinting off his teeth like something precious, a treasure Webster found at the bottom of the sea. 

They come back from the ocean and Webster presses Liebgott into the sand, their muscles sun-warm and languid -- catlike in their lazy intensity as Webster enters Liebgott gently yet somehow carelessly, as if his protectiveness over Liebgott is so ingrained that it doesn’t require any thought. Liebgott’s fruit-sweet mouth overwhelms the salt-water that slicks the back of Webster’s teeth, and he licks inside with long, searching swipes. The breeze lifts their hair, flicking saltwater and sand onto their hot skin. Webster presses salty kisses into Liebgott’s throat, tracing his tongue along the adam’s apple, licking up the saltwater that pools in the hollows of his collarbone. Liebgott wraps his arms around Webster’s neck, pulling him in deeper with every thrust, ragged nails raking deep into Webster’s scalp. They come together, feeling as powerful as the waves crashing into the shore, slapping against the rocks. 

“It’s impossible to think,” Webster whispers, so intimately that Liebgott can still hear him, even over the sound of the roaring ocean, “that I ever felt unsatisfied. That I ever felt hungry or cold, or that I didn’t think I had _enough_ \--”

“We got enough now, Web.” Liebgott’s fingers run down Webster’s face, as if confirming his existence. He smiles, and the thought settles. _I never thought I’d have so much_.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, once again, this is old LJ fic that I'm finally getting around to putting on a03. Title is from Edward Sharpe's "Home." Tumblr is @theteapirate.


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